


KÄRLEK

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It’s nice to meet you, too,” James says, and looks up from under his eyelashes at Paul, a coy smile playing around his lips. Oh. </i> Well.</p><p>  <i>Because IKEA is a land of Scandinavian cruelty wrapped up in midrange design elements, the moment is interrupted by Brooks going by on his rounds. Brooks stops dead and starts to flush red, and Paul hurriedly says, “I’ve got it, it’s under control now.”</i></p><p>The IKEA AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	KÄRLEK

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, [Nebulia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulia) said "i just saw a paulie lookalike employee at ikea. who’s writing me this au." Me. The answer is me.

Halfway through Paul’s shift on an ordinary Thursday there’s an almighty crash on the showfloor, and by the time Paul gets around the endcap to check on it, the damage is done. The center of the newly-created disaster is a gangly guy with a shock of dark hair that is entirely too rigid for its shape to be natural. He’s frozen, half bent over, staring at Paul like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

 

“Oh god I’m so sorry it was a total accident,” the guy blurts. The living room display around him is in disarray–-the long, low coffee table is somehow tipped on its end, and a variety of lamps are set askew, and none of the pillows are on the couch anymore, and the bookshelf looks suspiciously rumpled despite being a clear six feet away from the rest of the mess.

 

“An accident,” Paul says slowly, and the guy straightens, pasting on a winning smile.

 

“Totally,” he says, and the grin stays fixed while the rest of his face pales as somebody goes sprinting by Paul shouting, “La-azy! You in trouble now!” He skids to a stop–-Paul is amazed he can coordinate all six-plus feet of height, considering the fact that he’s apparently made of noodles given how much his limbs bend–-and gives Paul a considering look from behind the human tornado. “Am going now,” the new guy announces, and the first goes, “No, G, wait–”

 

“Going to eat meatballs, see at food court!” the second guy shouts gleefully and sprints off again.

 

“Did his mother never teach him not to run in public?” Paul asks rhetorically, and the human tornado sighs heavily and says, “He’s from Russia, we’re lucky his mother taught him how to function while sober.”

 

“Not a lesson you learned, apparently,” Paul says, and the guy flushes, looking down and fidgeting his feet.

 

“My name isn’t Lazy,” the guy says, a hair too loud. “It’s James.”

 

“What?” Paul asks, because he’s still thinking about how much of the living room is salvageable and if he’ll have to pull anything from stock and assemble it.

 

“G, he calls me Lazy, because he’s an assho-–a jerk,” the guy hurriedly censors himself, “but it’s not my name, my name is James.”

 

“It’s…nice to meet you, James?” Paul hazards, because in his time at IKEA he’s learned that 1. nobody truly understands the depths of the human condition until they are asked multiple times a day “is it delivered assembled?” while working at a ready-to-assemble furniture store and 2. when you’re dealing with those kinds of people, as long as you pay lip service to being polite you’ll probably live long enough to see the sun again.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” James says, and looks up from under his eyelashes at Paul, a coy smile playing around his lips. Oh. _Well._

 

Because IKEA is a land of Scandinavian cruelty wrapped up in midrange design elements, the moment is interrupted by Brooks going by on his rounds. Brooks stops dead and starts to flush red, and Paul hurriedly says, “I’ve got it, it’s under control now.”

 

“It’d better be,” Brooks says, which is remarkably restrained of him, but Paul’s been a model employee up until now so he supposes he’s earned a little slack.

 

“Did I get you in trouble?” James asks, and he looks like a kicked puppy, which is absolutely not fair.

 

“Not if I get this cleaned up before Brooks comes by again,” Paul says, moving forward to asses the broken light bulbs situation. There’s only one, and none of the others look cracked.

 

“I really am sorry,” James’ morose voice comes from behind Paul, too close, and Paul manfully resists the instinct to twitch.

 

“Least said, soonest mended,” Paul says, righting the end table and collecting the couch cushions. James is standing behind the couch when Paul turns to replace the cushions, incredulously mouthing something to himself.

 

“Who says that?” James finally says before bending to pick up a pillow and toss it haphazardly on the couch.

 

“I do,” Paul says, straightening the pillow.

 

“It was fine,” James whines, and Paul gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “Okay, it wasn’t fine,” James mutters, and Paul fetches the dustpan from its hiding place in the bookshelf. He bends over to brush up the broken lightbulb, and a suspicious strangled noise emanates from the general area of James; Paul tries not to feel too smug as he sweeps up the last of the glass and trots over to the trash can to dump it out. James is halfheartedly poking at the bookshelf when Paul gets back to the display, and Paul grips his shoulders and gently moves him to the side.

 

Paul’s just finishing straightening the books and contemplating exactly which mildly awkward but hopefully successful method he’s going to use to ask James out for coffee when there’s an unholy shriek of Ke$ha, mid-going down and yelling timber. James curses and fumbles out his phone, answering with an irritated, “G, I’m busy--” There’s a burst of panicked words through the phone, loud enough that Paul can nearly make out what’s being said.

 

“Shit,” James says, eyes wild and brows furrowed, and hangs up viciously. “Dude, I’m really sorry--” James pauses, and cranes his neck oddly, and finishes with, “Paul. I’m really sorry but there’s gonna be like a Russian throw-down in the food court in about thirty seconds if I don’t go.”

 

“Uh, okay?” Paul says, and James sprints off, and Paul finally realizes that he never introduced himself to James, and James’d had to read his name off his nametag.

 

He wonders vaguely if James is the one who is always inspiring the sprinting everywhere, or if the apparently Russian Geno is the root of the running. Paul very determinedly does not wonder about how James would kiss him, or how James’ hands would feel on Paul’s skin, if he’d be tentative and slipping endless “sorry”s from his lips, or if he’d be full of as much bravado as his hair.

 

By Saturday, Paul has mostly forgotten James, which really means he hasn’t mooned too embarrassingly over their very limited set of interactions. Paul is nearly done with his shift and he’s gagging for it to end, desperate to escape after one too many questions about how to pronounce “ÅFJÄRDEN”.

 

Paul has his eyes set on the door to the employee room and is not prepared to let anyone stop him in his escape mission; he’s actually reaching out to grab at the door handle when someone shouts, “Wait!” and careens into him. Once Paul rediscovers which way is up and which is down, he also discovers that the person clinging to him is James, red-faced and panting.

 

“I thought I’d never find you,” James manages, his breath gusting over Paul as he disentangles their limbs.

 

“Well, you succeeded,” Pauls says, the longing to escape to his apartment warring with the desire to see what James wants. James’ eyes are huge and dark as he catches his breath, and Paul is weak, too weak, so he says, “Can I help you with something?”

 

“Oh my god, we bought so many things, but G says he doesn’t understand the pictures even though there’s no words so _everybody_ can understand the pictures and I think I ruined a screw and we need so much help,” James says all in a rush, and Paul can’t help himself, he sighs. James withdrawals a little, and adds at a more normal speaking pace, “but--it’s okay if you can’t help, I bet you get lots of requests to help, huh? Kinda rude of me to hunt you down and ask, haha,” and James _actually says_ the words “haha,” as he’s turning to go.

 

“Hold on,” Paul says, and James turns back, eyes shining hopefully. “Let me get my stuff, my shift just ended.”

 

“Oh thank god,” James says, and he’s still fidgeting in the same place Paul left him when Paul re-emerges, a red plaid shirt covering the hideous yellow of his uniform. James bounds around Paul’s heels as they walk out to the parking lot, babbling incomprehensibly about baseball and soccer and classes and Dr. Holtz who is _literally the most evil_. Paul’s utterly fascinated and reluctantly charmed despite being kidnapped to presumably assemble furniture, and totally grateful for the reprieve from the endless stream of words as he follows James’ beater down the parkway west and into the South Side. They arrive at a unit at the end of a set of row homes, brick painted dark red, and manage to snatch two parking spots next to each other.

 

James bounces out of his car and shouts, “score!” lifting his hand for a fist-bump. Paul indulges him and follows as James blasts in the door and sprints up the steps to the second floor. It’s a good view, Paul admits to himself, and James whirlwinds into an apartment, Paul following demurely.

 

“G, I found our savior!” James is enthusing as Paul enters, and there’s two faces watching, one that’s vaguely familiar even though it’s not running towards the meatballs this time and one that’s--

 

“You’re Sidney Crosby,” Paul says dumbly and immediately hates himself. James sighs and rolls his eyes hugely.

 

“I _told_ you,” James says. “Weren’t you listening? G plays for the Riverhounds and he’s dating ‘ _the pitching savior of the Pirates_.’” James ditches the air quotes and the dramatic voice to flop down next to a pile of terrifyingly familiar parts strewn in the walkways and around the couch and basically in every part of the living room. Crosby--Jesus, Sidney fucking Crosby, his face was on the front of the _Post-Gazette_ two days ago, and here he is sitting in a beat-up apartment on the South Side--is laughing at Paul, but pretty nicely, and Geno is distracted with tucking Sidney closer into his side.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Paul says, maybe a little more faintly than he’d like, and then refocuses back to James. “Did you try to put any of this together?” James mutely shows him the head of a viciously stripped screw and Paul winces.

 

“Okay, let’s start with how to properly use a screwdriver,” Paul says, sitting next to James and deciding that the end table was probably the easiest place to start. Whatever movie Crosby and Geno were watching was full of explosions, and Paul finds out quickly that it’s the perfect audio complement to James attempting to wield a screwdriver. James sasses back constantly--”that’s not how you hold a screwdriver,” Paul says for the fourth time, and James says, “It’s how I hold a screwdriver, okay, bite me,”--and eventually it’s either change the situation or throw down right then and there with James.

 

“Give me that,” Paul finally says, exasperated, and finishes the end table plus puts together the coffee table in half the time it took them to get a single leg of the end table attached. James looks abashed, watching Paul work mostly quietly, occasionally chirping Geno in indecipherable ways (“You useless,” Geno says gleefully during a lull in the movie, and James shoots back, “Don’t think I don’t remember what happened in Tampa,” and Geno pouts and settles back down). It’s pleasant in a weirdly domestic way, and apropos of nothing Paul realizes he doesn’t even know James’ last name or what he does. Though apparently James may have already told him these things and he was too distracted by ogling James’ back to pay attention.

 

Both end tables and the coffee table are together when Paul’s stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly. “Oh, uh, sorry about that,” Paul says, and James gasps.

 

“Have you not eaten?” he demands, and Paul says, “uh, no? You caught me at the end of my shift.”

 

“But you work at IKEA! There’s so many Swedish meatballs!” James says, astonished, and Geno’s turned his head to stare, clearly affronted.

 

“Not like Swedish meatballs?” Geno asks, and Paul holds his hands up placatingly.

 

“Amazingly, after about eight months, they get a little old,” Paul says. “They’re not bad, I just...ate a lot of them in the beginning.” Geno is still looking a little thunderous, but he twitches and yelps as Crosby does--something, and they devolve into a slap fight that involves entirely too much giggling.

 

“Do you like sushi?” James asks, but Paul can’t answer because James is already on the phone, placing a long order. “Any requests?” James asks, covering the bottom half of his phone with his hand, and Paul says blankly, “uh--just, nothing too spicy, rather have salmon and tuna over most other fish. Not too many veg.”

 

“Got it,” James says, and lists off a few more rolls before hanging up and springing to his feet. “Alright, let’s go, chop chop, dinner waits for no man,” James says, and extends a hand down to Paul. Paul grasps it, and there’s the quick impression of warmth and then utter panic as James flings Paul to his feet egregiously quickly.

 

James chatters along the whole walk to Nakama--he’s at Pitt finishing a degree in exercise science, he goes to lots of Riverhounds and Pirates games but he still doesn’t _understand_ baseball but don’t tell Sid he said that, he wants to do strength and conditioning for the Riverhounds when he graduates or maybe be a trainer at one of those ritzy gyms in Sewickley, don’t laugh, okay, that’s mean, shut _up_ , I’m allowed to have dreams.

 

It’s not until they’re walking back, loaded down with two bags of sushi apiece, that Paul interrupts James as he’s saying, “And Sid comes out of the locker room, right--”

 

“We should get coffee some time,” Paul says. He says it half because of the Starbucks they’ve just walked past and half because of the jittering energy that’s crawling through his limbs and bubbling in the pit of his stomach, burning at the thought of James only ever seeing Paul because he needs help with basic adult tasks like furniture assembly rather than because he needs help with less basic adults tasks like sex. James drops from Paul’s peripheral vision, and Paul turns to see James stopped on the sidewalk, brow wrinkled and lips pursed. “What?” Paul says.

 

“Get coffee or like, _get coffee_?” James asks, and Pauls says, “Like, get coffee, I don’t know how else to say that.”

 

James rolls his eyes. “Get coffee like you have a need for caffeine or get coffee like go on a date, do you really not know the difference?”

 

“I know the difference,” Pauls snaps, and then quieter, “And I was hoping for option two.”

 

James groans, and tips his head back, and Paul tries to ignore the plunge of his heart--stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , he’s too old and not bear enough and--”Geno said this was a shitty date,” James says miserably to the sky. “But I thought sushi could make up for the furniture building? And I didn’t know how else to get your attention.” A pause, and then, “and I really did need help.”

 

Paul blows out a gusty sigh and then says, “What are you doing standing there? Come on, let’s go, the sushi’s getting--cold, or warm, I don’t know. Something.”

 

James’ shoulders slump as his head tips down and he says, “okay, yeah, let’s--let’s go.” Paul waits until James comes even with him to start walking again.

 

They reach the end of the block and cross a street in silence before Paul meditatively says, “The worst date I ever went on, we were out to dinner at this steak place and he followed me to the bathroom and tried to suck me off in front of the urinals.”

 

James lets out an enormous bray of laughter as a woman passing in the other direction gives Paul a shocked, wide-eyed look. Paul feels a little guilty but not too much because she’s probably about to get some first-hand experience in poorly timed propositions, based on her clubbing attire and the direction she’s headed towards. James finally pants out, “Seriously? He actually-- were there other people in the bathroom?”

 

“Not after I started yelling at him,” Paul says, and James laughs some more, shoulders shaking. Paul swings his hand when James quiets down, crashing their bags of sushi together but also brushing the back of his hand across James’. James’ eyes dart towards Paul, face still and uncertain, and Pauls says, “So what I’m saying is, as far as first dates go, you certainly haven’t ruled yourself out yet.”

 

“Yeah?” James says, and he can barely force it out past his smile. Paul smiles back and says, “Yeah.”

 

When they get back, Geno and Crosby pile on the sushi like they’re starving to death, and dinner is a war of chopsticks to snatch up the choice pieces before anyone else can get to them. There’s not even a handful of slices left in the containers when Geno drops his chopsticks, settles back in his chair--arm stretched across Crosby’s shoulders, who is suspiciously examining something topped with roe--and says gleefully, “So, nice Mr. IKEA, what you think of Lazy’s shitty date?”

 

“It’s not shitty!” James shouts, and clearly tries to kick at Geno and misses, going by the thud and shake of the table and James’ hiss of pain.

 

“I’ve certainly had worse,” Paul says evenly, though he can feel the burn of a blush on his face. “I would say save the furniture assembly for a later date, but I’m not sure James could survive another encounter with a hex wrench.”

 

“It’s true,” Geno says wisely as James splutters. “Tried to use hammer once, building almost fall down.” James huffs, crosses his arms, and slumps in his chair, staring moodily at the table.

 

“C’mon, Zhenya,” Crosby says, having finally dropped his chopsticks, standing and tugging at Geno’s arm. “We gotta go do, y’know, the thing--” He’s firmly dragging Geno down the hall, and Geno says, “What? Don’t know--” which cuts off with a muffled yelp.

 

James is still slumped in his seat, and Paul thinks about how James’ legs must be spread under the table, hips jutting forward off the seat of the chair. Ready for the taking. “So,” Paul says, and James’ head jerks up, “is this the part where I put together the rest of the furniture and go home to my lonely apartment, or is it the part where I get to kiss you and maybe touch your cock a little?”

 

James stares at Paul, slack-jawed, and utters a long, “uhhhhhh?” that trails off breathily. His expressions snaps to attention, and he says incredulously, “a _little_?”

 

“I don’t want to make any assumptions,” Paul says cautiously, and James says, “oh my _god_ , okay, you can touch my dick all you want, there is no limit on dick-touching, unless you have a limit which would be terrible but I’d totally respect your boundaries because I’m not a dick. I just want to, you know, suck them.”

 

“Nice,” Paul says drily, and James beams a little and says, “right? I was pretty proud of that.” It seems counter-productive for Paul to point out that he actually didn’t mean that, so instead he says, “Big talk for someone all the way over there,” and it’s just the corner of the table between them, but it feels like miles.

 

James sighs like it’s fucking drama class and hauls himself up. Paul pushes his chair back, but before he can stand James is straddling Paul’s legs and wrapping his arms around Paul’s neck and settling into Paul’s lap like it’s his God-given territory. “Seriously, you are so much work,” James says, and Paul opens his mouth to indignantly protest, “ _I’m_ so much work, are you kiddin--”

 

James’ lips feel pouty against Paul’s, and he probably is actually pouting, so of course Paul is going to nip at James’ lower lip and slide his tongue right in to try and fix that. James shifts against Paul, tiny hitches of his hips, and he’s not unresponsive but rather--accepting, as Paul kisses him, runs hands down his back, tucks fingers into his back pockets.

 

The chair gives an alarming creak as Paul shifts, trying desperately to find the right angle to get James pressed against his cock and--oh. Paul’s legs are going a little numb.

 

“Can we relocate this?” Paul grunts out, trying to wiggle his toes to get the blood flow going. James shrugs, rolling off of Paul’s lap gracefully. By the time Paul can feel his thighs well enough that he can stand up without worrying about faceplanting, James has picked his way over to the couch and is sizing it up. “Do you not have a communal furniture rule?” Paul asks, alarmed, and James gives him a guilty look.

 

“Maybe,” James hedges, and Paul says, “can we just--” at the same time James says, “My bedroom, I guess?”

 

“Yeah,” Paul says, relieved, and trails James down a hallway and up a set of stairs and into an open door in the classic first-hookup miasma of awkwardness. Inside the door is what could technically be called a bedroom but looks more like something wild animals lived in.

 

“Uh, sorry about the mess,” James says, and Paul suppresses his instinctive judgement face somewhat successfully. At least there’s no dirty dishes scattered around. “It’s not clean because I didn’t think any of this would actually work,” James adds, shamefaced. “but I had to try anyway and I kinda forgot about some of the details.”

 

“Apparently,” Paul says, for lack of anything else to say. Unfortunately, that leaves them staring at each other blankly, still caught by the lull of moving rooms. James’ lips are still slick, hair slightly askew where Paul had fisted it to tilt James’ head to just the right angle.

 

James is still as Paul approaches him and slides his hands around the collar of James’ tee, fingers dipping in to graze over the edge of a collarbone. Paul runs his hands down the solid shape of James’ chest and stomach and grips the hem of James’ shirt; he tugs it up slowly, reveling in the cut of James’ muscles and the sight of James’ stomach flexing with fast breaths. James lifts his arms so Paul can pull the shirt all the way off, tugging the collar wide so it doesn’t catch on James’ ears. Paul drops the shirt and gives himself a few seconds to appreciate and anticipate, and James is still quiet and compliant, watching Paul back with an obviously satisfied tilt to his lips. Paul can easily see the pull of James’ jeans where they’re doing an insufficient job of containing James’ erection, and he takes pity, sliding his hands back down James’ body to undo the belt buckle.

 

Paul can’t--he can’t help himself, and he kneels as he pulls James’ jeans down, dropping light kisses along the thickness of James’ thigh, the awkward knobbiness of his knee, the sharp swoop of his calf. “Jesus,” James breathes, and Paul looks up to see James licking his lips and then saying, “get up here, okay, right now--” Paul surges to his feet, kissing James fiercely, until James whimpers and goes a little slack in Paul’s arms.

 

It’s a perfect opportunity and Paul takes it, guiding James backwards until he tips onto the bed. James arches, staring at Paul challengingly before he twists his nipple, head tipping back and mouth opening on a breathy moan. Paul shucks his clothes so quickly he nearly gives himself friction burn and slides on top of James, hissing out an exhale as his dick drags against James’.

 

“Any requests?” Paul breathes out, bracing himself on his elbows over James. James lunges up to steal a kiss and says, “god, anything, please,” and Paul can work with that; he starts by shimmying back down and dragging off James’ boxers. James’ cock is thick, pleasingly so, and not too long, uncut and plump and begging for attention. Paul curls his fingers around it, pulls back the foreskin so he can breathe across the bright red head. James chokes and curls a hand in Paul’s hair and says, “Paul, please,” and Paul wraps his lip around the tip, runs his tongue around to get a taste before sinking further down and hollowing his cheeks.

 

James takes it so prettily, arching and moaning and encouraging Paul with the press of his hand against the side of Paul’s head. The weight of James’ cock against Paul’s tongue and the thickness of it in his mouth is just right, and Paul can’t help but spread his legs and push his dick down against the bed for a little relief as he pulls up and pushes down and sucks hard again and again. Paul frees up a hand to cradles James’ balls and he can feel them tighten and lift within the curl of his fingers. He drags his knuckles across James’ perineum, pushes the pad of his thumb flat and hard against James’ hole and James cries out, arching and coming down Paul’s throat. Paul swallows, sucking James’ dick dry before backing off and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Paul sits up and surveys James, who is lax against the bed, eyes heavy-lidded as he smiles up at Paul. “C’mere,” James slurs, and Paul goes, sucking a bright red mark onto James’ neck before kissing James, firmly taking and exploring James’ mouth.

 

Paul pulls back enough to say, “you gonna give me a hand?” and James smirks, insolent and evaluating as he runs his eyes down Paul’s body.

 

“Nah, you got it,” James says eventually, slow and confident, and his crooked smile shouldn’t be that hot when paired with that kind of an attitude. “Show me what you got, come on.”

 

“You are some kind of pillow queen,” Paul says half-admiringly, shifting his weight onto one elbow so he can wrap his other hand around his dick. James shrugs carelessly, stretching his arms up and flexing as Paul’s hand speeds up, clearly posing for Paul’s benefit.

 

“Yeah, I know,” James says, and there’s zero shame in his words. “But you like it, don’t you,” and it’s too true and James looks up at Paul just right from under his eyelashes, turning his head so Paul can see his mark bright and red on James’ skin and Paul is coming in stripes across James’ indecent abs, tingling from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. “Yeah,” Paul hears James say through the haze of his orgasm, low and satisfied, “mark me up, you like that too don’t you, and it’s so good, baby.” Paul groans and collapses to the side, completely unable to cope with that immediately in the face of coming.

 

“So, like, this is gonna happen again, right?” James eventually says into the quietness between them, voice still fuzzy and fucked-out.

 

“Don’t buy any more furniture until you’re capable of assembling it yourself,” Paul says roughly, and James turns his head and gives Paul big, sad eyes, so Paul adds, “but yes, it will.”

 

“Good,” James says, satisfied, and winds an arm around Paul’s shoulder to lay a hand on Paul’s back, slides them close chest to chest and hip to hip.

 

“Ugh, you’re getting jizz all over me,” Paul grumbles, and James cackles and rubs himself entirely too vigorously across Paul until it’s all a tacky mess and they’re going to wake up stuck together. Paul should mind. He doesn’t.

 

**Author's Note:**

> KÄRLEK means "love" in Swedish.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


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